The Memoirs of Cleopatra (13 page)

“Moses,” said Mardian. “That’s who it was. It’s in that book of Hebrew legends. Moses is an Egyptian name; it has something to do with Thutmose.”

The captain was not interested. “When we get to the banks of the Sea of Reeds, halt and we will test the waters.”

“In the Moses story,” insisted Mardian, “the waters were so deep, all the army was drowned.”

“They can be deep,” admitted the captain. “Let us pray today is not one of those times.”

Glittering from afar we could see the waters, waiting for us. They were flat and a cruel shade of blue, indicating they were stagnant and filled with bitter salts. The reeds and vegetation in them would be different from those living in fresh water.

As we finally reached the banks, I smelled the foul odor of slime and decay. I could see oily rings around the stalks of the reeds; a dull sheen reflected the sunlight upward. Yet there were birds in the thickets, twittering and flying from stem to stem.

“The water is passable!” announced the captain with elation, as his scouts reported back to him. “The guides will lead us! We will hire reed boats, and have the beasts led across riderless.”

And so we did. And I sat in the rocking little boat made of papyrus stalks lashed together, which was buoyant only up to a point, and the foul water seeped in all around me. We had to push through the tough, stringy roots and reeds and blades of the vegetation, which slapped our faces and cut our hands. And the stench! I thought I would vomit from the gases that were stirred up in our passing. When I put my hand into the water to grasp a stalk to steady us, it emerged with a coating of oil and foul salt.

Never had banks of sand looked so pure and clean as when we reached the other side at last! It had been only about two miles, but it was the most unpleasant two miles under the Egyptian sun, of that I was sure.

The rest of the journey was tame. We made our way across the thirty-five miles of sand separating the tip of the lake from the open Mediterranean, until we could see that sea, intense blue that reflected the sky, with its white waves also reflecting the clouds. Then we made sure to keep well away from the well-traveled road that ran alongside the coast.

Gaza, the former land of the Philistines, was easy enough to reach. And in the rich city of Ashkelon I found welcome, supporters who were only too willing to take up arms against the usurpers. The word went out that Queen Cleopatra was raising an army.

Night; hot, windy night. I lay in my tent unable to sleep. I had my army, and we were camped just outside the borders of Egypt, near where we had passed months ago. I now had almost ten thousand men, some Egyptian and some Nabataean Arabs. They were good fighters.

But my brother—or Achillas, rather—had more troops. He had what was left of the old legions of Gabinius as well as fresh Egyptian soldiers that he had been able to recruit. They were camped just opposite us, occupying Pelusium, the fortress that guarded the eastern borders of Egypt. We could not get past them, nor could we take Alexandria by sea, because they had closed the harbor with underwater chains and guarded it by fleet.

Two months. Two months now we had been facing each other across the sands, and I had been barred from Alexandria for a year before that. I was well supplied from Ashkelon, and they from Egypt. How long would we sit here? Who would strike the first blow?

I tossed on my folding camp bed. The strings underneath creaked. My hair was damp on my forehead, and when I slept, my dreams were vague but disturbing. The hot wind puffing in through the net around the door was like a feverish lover’s kiss—or what I imagined a lover’s kiss to be. I knew of them only from dreams, from poetry, and from my own imagination. The lantern flickered. On the other side of the tent, on her pallet, Iras moaned and stirred. There was a sighing sound as she rolled over.

It was the middle of the night. Everyone slept. Why could I not? I shut my eyes again. More hot puffs of wind. I felt as though someone were standing at the entrance to the tent, lifting the net, stepping in. I started awake—or was I dreaming? I seemed to see a tall woman, holding a cornucopia. The emblem of our dynasty? She was silent. I could not see her face. Yes, I was dreaming. For in a moment a real visitor came, and the sound as he lifted the tent flap was entirely different.

“Mardian!” I recognized his blocky shape.

“Shhhh!” He bent down and crept over to my bed. “Something terrible has happened,” he whispered. His voice was shaking.

I sat up and put my arm around his shoulder, then I murmured, “What? Spare me not.”

“Our country is shamed before the world. O Egypt!”

“What?”

“Treachery! O treachery!”

“In the name of Isis, stop lamenting and
tell
me!”

“Ptolemy has slain Pompey!”

“But how?” was all I could say in my shock. Little Ptolemy, with his tiny sapling arms, slay mighty Pompey?

“They set upon him, it was lies—” He broke off suddenly. Iras was awakening.

“It is all right. You may speak in front of her.” I had come to trust Iras completely, and to rely on her serene good judgment.

“The defeated Pompey was making his way to Egypt.” Mardian decided to begin again.

In all my own troubles, I had forgotten about the Roman ones. But during the time of my exile, Pompey and Caesar had met in full battle at Pharsalus in Greece. Caesar had won, but Pompey had escaped with his life and a handful of men. I had known that, but had not cared. Rome and its woes paled before my own.

“He meant to raise another army. He was coming to Egypt to regroup his forces; as Ptolemy’s guardian—for so your father’s will named him, he claims—Ptolemy owed him that loyalty, and a base of operations. But they knew he was doomed, and so they wanted to be rid of him.”

“Continue,” I said. “How did you learn this?”

“A deserter from Ptolemy’s camp just arrived. I think he speaks truth. They will bring him to you in the morning, but I wanted to tell you first.”

Dear, loyal Mardian. “I thank you.”

“This man was watching from the beach. He saw what happened. Pompey was murdered by Achillas and two other men who were rowing him to shore, within sight of his wife on the warship. They stabbed him and cut off his head before her eyes!”

Pompey—who had treated me so kindly as a child, whom I had met and gazed on in wonder—now beheaded! We had talked of Alexandria, and I had promised him,
We will guard it for you, and it will always be waiting for you
.

And when at last he came, my evil brother and his men had given him a hideous welcome; they had given my promise the lie.

“They are beasts,” I said. “It is beasts, not men, that I contend with. Then I myself need have no pity for them.” I shuddered at the thought of them. Calling them beasts was an insult to animals. Then I had a sudden thought. “What of Caesar?”

“Their killing Pompey was to forestall Caesar coming to this part of the world. But they did not understand the likes of Caesar. Caesar came in hot pursuit of Pompey, following so swiftly that he arrived with very few troops. Our informer heard that Theodotos presented Caesar with the severed head and Pompey’s signet ring, thinking to earn his approval. Instead Caesar wept, then raged at them.”

“Where is he now?”

“Caesar is in Alexandria, so this fellow says. He has settled himself in the palace. He does not seem eager to move on.”

“But what is he
doing
there?” Why was he lingering? Was Ptolemy with him? Caesar was a politician as well as a soldier. Might he become Ptolemy’s next “guardian”?

“I do not know,” said Mardian.

Iras spoke for the first time. “As long as Caesar is there, Ptolemy does not rule,” she said. “That is in your favor.”

“It can never be in one’s favor to have a strong power occupying one’s home. It would be like a lion coming into this tent and deciding he wished to sleep on this bed,” I said.

After Mardian had left, and Iras had lain back down, I stared at the ceiling folds of the tent. They were lost in darkness, and the jumping flames of the lantern only served to make the hidden parts of the tent seem blacker. The hot wind was relentless. The desert tribesmen had a name for that wind, for its pressing intensity. It was keeping me from thinking. All I could do was lie still and sweat. I was a prisoner in the oppressive night, shackled to my bed.

Julius Caesar had defeated Pompey. Julius Caesar was master of the Roman world. Julius Caesar was in Alexandria, living in the palace—my palace! He was daily in the presence of my brother. Why? Why was he staying? What was his purpose?

I would have to go there and present my case to him. Iras was right. As long as Caesar was there, Ptolemy and his nefarious Council did not rule. I could appeal to a judge over their heads. But I would have to go quickly. Every day that passed with Ptolemy having Caesar all to himself made them more likely to become allies.

A fly was buzzing inside the tent, bumping from fold to fold. We had not used mosquito nets here, as we were not near swamps. Now I wished we had, for I hated flies. He was coming closer; I heard him approach and then saw, by the dim lanternlight, where he landed. I sat up quickly, grabbed my sandal, and, with one movement so swift the eye could hardly follow it, smashed him.

Was that how Caesar smashed his enemies? They said he moved quickly and took his opponents by surprise. He had never lost a final battle, even when outmanned. And according to Mardian, he had come swiftly to Egypt with only a few troops, relying on surprise to win the day with Pompey. That must mean that he was now in Alexandria without many soldiers to protect him. Again the question: Why was he lingering?

What did I know about Caesar? Precious little. Only that he was generally more popular with the people than with the aristocrats, that he had achieved his military successes relatively late, and that he was constantly involved with women, usually married women. Mardian had once told me that every fashionable divorce in Rome seemed to involve an adultery with Caesar. And his taste was not restricted to women, Mardian said; Caesar had also been involved with the King of Bithynia in his youth. He collected works of art as well, Mardian confided, and prized them above his romantic conquests.

My heart sank. He would probably make off with some of our best artworks, then. He would strip the palace of our Greek statues and our Egyptian furniture and paintings. And that stupid Ptolemy would let him!

Outside there was stirring, the first faint sounds of daybreak. I could tell the hour by a subtle shift in the way the air blew into the tent. Before long they would awaken me, and by the time the sun came over the sands, they would be bringing the informer to me to recount his tale. I was glad I had had time to prepare for his message.

The man was Egyptian, an older warrior who had been in my father’s army before the troops of Gabinius had arrived. He looked ashamed, as deserters and spies and informers always do, even if they feel the cause of their erstwhile masters to be wrong or hopeless.

I had prepared myself for him, wearing my most regal robes. After all, he should feel that he had deserted to a queen, not a vagabond. He prostrated himself on the ground, kissing the gravel, then lifted his head. “O great Queen of the east, my soul is yours and my body I lay before you to command.”

Yes, as it was for others before me, I thought. Traitors might be useful, but they could never be trusted.

It was as Mardian reported. The black deed was performed by Achillas and a Roman commander, Septimus, one of Pompey’s former soldiers. But it was at the urging of Theodotos, who had said, “Dead men don’t bite.” Loyalty, honor, and debt were all wiped out by that practical advice. And so Pompey was slain on the very shores where he had come to seek sanctuary and had every right to expect a welcome.

His bleeding trunk had been tossed onto the sands and left there for his freedman to attempt to cremate. The poor man had been forced to go up and down the shores hunting for driftwood, and was not able to find quite enough. And so the body—

I stopped him here. “I do not wish to know these details. It is demeaning to Pompey even to allow us to picture them. Tell me what happened when Caesar followed.”

“I was not there. I was sickened by what I had already seen. I was watching and waiting for an opportunity to desert. I never saw Caesar. I only heard that he was in Alexandria. Theodotos had taken the…the head and ring to present it to him. Caesar punished him instead. I heard Theodotos ranting about Caesar’s ingratitude. But that was only a few hours before I left.”

“Where is Achillas now? And Ptolemy?”

“Achillas is still at Pelusium, facing your army. Ptolemy goes back and forth between the army and Alexandria. Caesar resides in the palace in Alexandria. The last thing I heard before I was able to escape was that he had angered the people of the city by landing as a Roman magistrate with his insignia and officials, as if he expected obeisance. And Theodotos was muttering that Caesar had claimed he had the right to arbitrate between Your Majesty and Ptolemy.”

Could it be true? On what basis could he claim that? “What, to the best of your knowledge, is the state of the city? Is it well guarded?”

“Very well. Achillas has seen to that. Every entrance is bristling with soldiers, and the harbors are blockaded.”

“So Caesar is trapped?”

“He does not see it that way, apparently. He does not seem alarmed.”

So Caesar was locked in, and I was locked out.

A week passed, then two. Nothing happened. Our armies continued to face each other across the stretch of desert, and neither moved. Then another deserter appeared, and his news was that Ptolemy had gone to Caesar and they were residing together in the palace. (What were
our
deserters telling Achillas? That we were disheartened? Tired of waiting, but with insufficient soldiers to force a battle?)

Day after day we sat by the wells under the shade of the palm trees and waited. The camels dozed with their long-lashed eyelids closed, and the rocks in the direct sun gave off the characteristic smell of overheated stone. A sort of torpor overtook us. It was as if we had always been here and always would be.

And then one day the light seemed dimmed, and the captain of the guard, a man from Gaza, came to my tent and said, “Sandstorm! Prepare yourselves!”

Everything had to be covered several times over, the openings of tents and boxes and bags secured, and we must veil our faces. Soon the wind would come howling, bringing a mist of fine sand particles, and we could breathe only through gauze.

“Hurry, Iras!” I said. “Put the jewel boxes and the money chests on a mantle, lest they sink into the sands. The water jars too. Then cover them over. And come and huddle with me under my cloak, with a blanket spread over that. A tent within a tent.”

She did so, and we waited. The wind rose to a howl and we could see the sides of the tent straining. Sand got in through all the tiny spaces in the cloth, seeping in almost as if it were water. The air was hazy with it.

The full force of it went on for hours, and then lasted into the darkness. We dared not stir. I was thankful that it had started during the day so we had seen it coming in time to prepare.

I thought it had abated, but as I was preparing to lift off the covering, I saw the side of the tent bulging and straining. The wind was strong! But then it seemed to be focused on one area only, and feeling its way along. Suddenly hands appeared in the door of the tent, and I saw someone crawl in.

“Here, sir,” said the voice of one of my guards.

Another shape followed on its hands and knees. Both figures were completely swathed in cloaks.

“Your Majesty,” said the guard. “Are you here?”

I threw off the outer cloak but kept on the veil, and stood up. “Yes,” I said. “Whom do you bring to see me? Announce him.”

“This is Rufus Cornelius, a messenger from Julius Caesar.”

Caesar! I stiffened. “We will receive him. Pray you, stand up and show your faces.”

The two men both got to their feet and unwrapped their head coverings. Under the hood of Cornelius I saw the Roman helmet with its decorative brush.

“Welcome,” I said. “What has Imperator Caesar to say to Queen Cleopatra?” My heart was pounding.

“My general and commander says he has come to Egypt to rectify the sad situation whereby King Ptolemy’s will is not being obeyed. This will, which was entrusted to Rome for execution, declared both Queen Cleopatra and King Ptolemy to rule jointly. Caesar finds, alas, that brother and sister are at war with each other. This grieves him.”